


Lead Us Not Into Temptation

by justabi



Category: Smallville RPF
Genre: Buddies, Drugs, M/M, Sex Pollen, helping hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-23
Updated: 2004-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:54:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justabi/pseuds/justabi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At least 38 men who have taken Viagra have gone blind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lead Us Not Into Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Hug Appreciation fic for astrea5962.

The heat from the water soaked deliciously into the skin of his back as he scrubbed the little mesh poofy-thing across his chest. Suds trailed along in its path from one shoulder to the other, between his pecks and down the hard plane of his abs. A shiver ran up his spine when his hand dipped below his navel to brush through the dark trail of hairs connecting it to lower regions, and he turned into the hot spray.

A flowery scent filled the humid air of the tiny shower, and although it was nice he was still going to have to speak with his wife about getting him a more manly smelling soap, like the stuff he used to have before she took over. With his botanical shampoo and the sweet scent of her perfume that seemed to cling to him longer than his socks on the back of his pants when she didn’t use dryer sheets, the scents combined into a more effective advertisement of his marital status than the gold band around his finger. The aura of girly scents that extended three feet from his body at all times was practically like being marked as her territory. She might as well just pee on his leg.

Not that he minded people knowing he was married. Everyone knew anyway, and he was proud of her, but there was something disconcerting about announcing his presence with the scent of something off one of those commercials with a woman running through a meadow filled with wildflowers, and he still wasn’t sure what that was all about. Maybe he did mind just a smidge.

There was one person in particular that he could live without reminding every second of the day that he had a lovely wife at home. All that flawless skin paraded around him every day was slowly driving him to distraction. Every few days he managed to find some excuse to touch it casually, brush against it for just a second in a purely platonic way. They were coworkers, friends and nothing more and never would be.

That didn’t stop him from obsessing in the slightest, though. Everyday conversations took on double meanings when he dissected every possible interpretation, eye contact that lasted even slightly longer than the millisecond duration of most of their friendly glances seemed imbued with mutual attraction or a reciprocal longing for something they could never have. Cravings for food he had watched pass between those lips, touch the triangle of pink tongue that slipped out between them, assaulted him in the middle of the night with such ferocity that he preemptively added them to the grocery list now.

And his showers took twice as long on days like today. Work days. Even if he hadn’t already loved his job, he would relish coming to work. Torturing himself with fantasies of every conceivable situation that would force them to stay late or thrust them together longer than was strictly necessary had to be factored into his schedule, not that anyone else knew where his attention was slipping off to when his eyes glazed over. Or at least he hoped not.

Vigilance was key when showering at work, because all he wanted to do touch himself all day long from the moment he got to work until the second he heard his wife’s voice when he got home and it was hard to stop himself in the relative privacy the stall provided. Most days he couldn’t stop himself, had to jerk off before he got home to her calming presence. Home was safe; partially because he felt guilty imagining being unfaithful while she was in the next room and partially because being around her, her things, her scent reminded him that he did genuinely love her. Perhaps that was why she sent him to work with her brand of shower gel these days, the proprietary mark more to remind him who he really belonged to than drive off anyone else.

But today even that thought wasn’t enough to stay his hand, as it were. Blood had long since left the part of his brain that controlled impulses and shame and anything else that might have kept his hand from dropping the last few inches to his cock and sliding up and down its length with slippery strokes. One hand planted itself on the tile above the showerhead as the other continued to slide over the one he tried hard not to think with too much.

Breath coming in quick pants, quiet little moaning noises bitten off before they passed his lips, he worked himself in earnest, immersed in a vivid memory of unblinking blue-gray eyes locked with his earlier that day. The throb in his dick felt like it was taking over his entire body before too long, as he imagined a pale hand clenched tightly around his blood-reddened cock. White-hot need for release coiled tightly in his belly and his body began to shudder. A blinding orgasm ripped through his body as hot cum poured out of him into the water cascading off his chest and down the drain.

Nothing in his past had prepared Tom for the intensity of his attraction to another man. Actually, he couldn’t remember ever coming so hard when he thought about a woman, either. Any woman. Not even when he’d been a horny teenaged boy with nothing but time and a stash of Playboys. Women got him hot, had always turned him on, pressed his buttons, done it for him, and he’d never even thought about another man that way. It wasn’t because he’d never been around hot guys, before, either. He’d been a male underwear model for years, surrounded by the hottest men who made a living prancing around more than half naked in front of him and everyone else, and never gotten wood from looking at any of them.

Michael seemed to be the only man to have this effect on him, and it frightened him at the same time it relieved his anxiety that he’d just always been gay and never realized it until now. Everyone was bisexual to some extent, right? It didn’t mean anything about him that he couldn’t stop thinking about his undeniably male best friend while he jerked off in the shower everyday, or constantly obsessing over him. Nothing what so ever. Nope.

It certainly didn’t mean that he’d drop to his knees and suck cock like one of the overeager fan girls that lined up to do it everywhere Mike went, if he ever got the chance, or even a thin excuse to try it. Which was why he abstained from drinking around Michael for health reasons, not out of any misguided fear that he might get a little too friendly and do something that would leave no doubt as to his feelings for his costar in front of god and everyone. Like kissing him, or groping him, or sucking him off, or tying him to the bed and having hot, sweaty gay sex with him.

Drinking seemed like a really good idea sometimes, anyway. Like last month when Jamie was out of town and he had to go to the cast party alone. Instead of going stag and hanging out with him all night, Michael had brought that disgustingly thin model and Tom had accidentally walked in on them having sex in the coat room. Bile washed down better with a little vodka, and he could hardly taste it anymore by the time Alyson poured him into a cab. Of course he had spent the night vomiting that up, too, and had slept on the floor of his bathroom because the tile was cool.

Jamie was going out of town again this weekend and he had big plans on locking himself inside his house and living on beer and pizza, possibly even for breakfast. A wide selection of sporting events, porn and a stash of Michael Rosenbaum movies were at his disposal as well as a recliner and a remote with his name on it. That he would also need a bottle of lotion and a box of Kleenex on the end table went unsaid. All he had to do was unplug the phone and everything would be perfect.

 

* * *

Three days and a half a case of Bud Light later, it was Friday night and Jamie had been safely at her parents’ for hours. Tom was most definitely enjoying the fruits of his labor and having the place to himself. Sitting in front of the TV for hours at a time with his hands down his pants, belching up the taste of beer and Meat Lover’s pizza eaten straight out of the box, growing a beard and watching the kind of movie that came to your house in a plain, brown packaging made him feel like a man’s man, not a clean shaven pretty boy actor that smelled like a florist. Life was good.

Until the shrill chirping in his ear reminded him that he had forgotten to turn off his cell phone. Ignoring it might have worked if it had been a rational human being calling him, but it was midnight and the only person who would be calling him now could hardly be described as rational. If he didn’t answer it, the phone would keep ringing all night long, so he shoved it under one of the cushions in the couch. Apparently he had neglected to unplug all the landlines as well because ten seconds of silence ended with a cacophony of ringing from practically every room in the house.

“What do you want, Michael?” he answered the phone, justifiably confident enough not to even bother looking at the caller ID first.

“Get your ass over here,” came the unfazed response.

“It’s after midnight,” he argued half-heartedly.

“So what, you aren’t an 80-year-old woman.” Michael sounded a little drunk, and Tom knew he was just past buzzed already. Which was why this was absolutely not happening no matter how much Michael taunted him.

“I can’t drive,” he said, like that put an end to the matter.

“You only live ten blocks away,” you pussy, he didn’t say, but it came across loud and clear anyway.

“Most accidents happen within five miles of the home.” He pulled out his only trump card. “Jamie will kick my ass if I wreck the car.”

“I need you.” Fuck. “Take a cab. Or walk.”

“It’s like ten below outside,” Tom whined in a last ditch effort to keep his sanity in tact.

“Please, Tommy,” Michael begged in the low voice that made an appearance in all Tom’s best fantasies.

“Fine,” he finally caved. He didn’t know why he had even bothered resisting in the first place.

“Good, now hurry the fuck up,” commanded the voice he knew and loved.

Regardless of what he had said, he drove the two miles over to the nice apartment the studio put Michael up in when they were shooting in Vancouver. If he walked or took a cab, he wouldn’t be able to leave quickly enough if he lost control of himself, so a getaway car was key. The beer he’d been drinking all evening was light beer with hardly any alcohol to speak of still left in its colorless, tasteless depths anyway he reasoned. Still, he drove with a little extra caution and a little less speed than normal.

The heater was working by the time he arrived and he sat in the car and banged his head against the steering wheel a few times before he ventured out into the cold night and up the stairs to his destination. Finally he worked up enough confidence to get out of the rapidly cooling vehicle and trudged up the three flights, watch his breath hang in the frigid air in front of him as long as he could before pounding his numb fists on the door. When the door opened he turned around intending to head right back to his car, but he stopped at the touch of a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Home.”

“You just got here.”

“Yes,” Tom agreed, “and now I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not,” Michael countered, his hand now completely fisted in the shoulder of Tom’s thin coat and pulling him back toward the door. “Now get you ass in here so I can close the door before my balls freeze and fall off.”

“You are obviously busy,” Tom turned around, brushed Michael’s hand away and continued, “it’s late and I should never have come over here in the first place.”

“What? No,” Michael waved his concern off like it was nothing. “Look, this is what I need your help with.”

“Yeah, now I’m definitely going home,” and drinking until I can’t see straight, he added mentally.

“Not that kind of help, you dirty minded homophobe.”

“I’m not a homophobe or an idiot. What other kind of help could you possibly want with,” Tom gesticulated wildly in Michael’s direction, “that?”

“Just come inside and I’ll explain.” Michael tugged on his shirt, shivered and begged through loudly chattering teeth, “Please. Come on, it’s freezing out here.”

Which was true; it was colder than a witch’s tit out here. And that really just made it all the more remarkable that Michael was still standing barefoot on the concrete landing in nothing but a three-quarter length, silk bathrobe sporting an erection the size of a zucchini that was apparently the only part of his shivering, goose flesh covered body unaffected by the temperature. A barrage of images of throwing him down on the ground and warming that up for him slammed into his brain long enough for Michael to effectively coax him inside before he heard the sound of the door locking and snapped out of it.

“Alright, but if I see one candle or hear even one of Barry Mantilou’s greatest hits I’m outta here,” he capitulated, knowing that leaving was a lost cause the second he stepped over the threshold. “So don’t get any ideas into that hairless melon of yours.”

“As irresistible as I find you,” Michael grinned, “I think I’ll be able to control myself.”

“Well, as long as you’re sure, you want to tell me what’s going on, or did you want me to guess why you called me in the middle of the night, begged me to come over and then answered the door in a kimono and a smile?” he smile with a sugary sweet sarcasm enough to give a person a cavity and a bat of his eyes.

“Since I already know what your guess is, gutter brain, I think I’ll just tell you, if that’s alright,” grumbled Michael.

“Explain away,” he offered magnanimously. “But you have to admit it does look a little suggestive.”

“You know you want me,” Michael teased.

“Yeah, yeah, everybody wants you, Michael,” he played along as he dropped heavily into a soft leather sofa. “Now start talking, and bring me a drink.”

“It’s been like this for six hours,” came Michael’s voice from the kitchen, along with a cacophony of banging cabinets, clunking glasses and tinkling ice. “This guy I know gave me some Viagra and I was supposed to meet these twins tonight…”

“And the doublemint girls couldn’t help you out with your little problem because…”

“Well, it’s not like I could leave the house like this,” Michael replied reasonably, looked down pointedly as he walked back across the room and handed Tom a tall scotch on the rocks before sitting down on the other couch with his own drink.

“Why didn’t you just call them to come down here instead of me, genius?” Tom asked between sips of the smooth liquor.

“We weren’t quite to that part of the evening, yet, Tom. I barely know them. Women don’t just jump into bed with you before you even buy them dinner, Mr. Smarty Pants,” Michael quipped. “Surely you remember what it’s like for us poor slobs; it hasn’t been that long since you were single.”

“Laugh it up, but I get all the sex I can handle and I don’t have to buy dinner first,” Tom lied. Or, well, bent the truth. Jamie certainly did her best to take care of his needs, but he had to buy a lot more than dinner for it and he had to take out the trash. But he never had to go out looking for it and that’s what mattered in his book.

“Back to me and my problems,” Michael interrupted his train of thought. “It won’t go down. Not even for sub-zero temperatures; you saw it out there.”

“And thank you so much for burning that image into my brain for all of time and eternity,” Tom supplied the expected response. “I’m scarred for life, you know.”

“Poor you, now that you know you can never measure up to me your life is over,” Michael mocked. “But you can take comfort in the fact that Jamie is obviously in the size doesn’t matter camp.”

“Haha, you’re just so damn funny,” he deadpanned.

“What am I gonna do about this?” Michael asked seriously as if Tom had any experience what so ever with this sort of thing.

“Have you tried handling it yourself?” he asked circumspectly. The last thing he needed right now was an image in his brain of Michael masturbating.

“No, I just sat here with hard on for six hours and played video games,” Michael deadpanned. “What do you think? Of course I tried that already.”

“Well, I don’t know! How am I supposed to know what to do?” Tom threw up his hand in exasperation, then drank the rest of his scotch in one gulp.

“Like I know, either,” his distressed friend snapped.

“What does it say on the box?” Tom attempted to be helpful.

“To go to the hospital, but that isn’t an option unless I want my face on the cover of every tabloid in the free world tomorrow morning,” Michael retorted, then stomped into the kitchen and returned with the bottle of scotch.

After he had finished his second glass, Tom was feeling bolder, so he asked, “Does it hurt?”

Michael hesitated a second before mumbling, “kind of,” into his glass of neat scotch, and pouring another for Tom.

Warmth had returned to his extremities and a dangerous heat was building in his abdomen. The third glass of scotch added to the buzz he’d had when he left his house, and the combined effect left him more relaxed than he should have been in this situation. A fuzzy, heavy feeling weighed his arm down a bit when he held his glass out for a refill, which Michael helpfully supplied, and Tom recklessly downed.

“Do you want me to look at it?” he offered, a flush blooming in his cheeks as he stuttered, “To see if everything’s alright down there, I mean.”

“Are you sure you wanna do that, man?” Michael offered a perfectly good out, but Tom was too far gone to take it.

Nodding languidly, Tom set his tumbler down on the little table at the corner of the sofa, dropped to his knees and crawled toward Michael. “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

Sitting right between Michael’s naked knees, Tom slowly pulled the fabric belt closing the front of the robe loose, watched as the silk slid away from acres of pale skin that had been tormenting him for months and then just looked. Without thinking, he leaned in and reached a hand out toward the prize he had only seen before in his dreams, only pulling it back like he’d been burned when he had barely touched it and Michael’s breath hitched.

He licked his lips, and looked up into the pained expression on Michael’s face before crooning, “It looks fine to me.”

“Oh, god, please,” Michael’s broken voice floated down.

It was all the encouragement Tom needed to take hold of the swollen cock two inches from his face and suck the head into his mouth. Strangled noises and wiggling to give him better access were all Michael contributed as Tom fumbled his way through giving his first ever blowjob. That he had never done this before was abundantly clear every time he took too much and gagged, but he never stopped, just kept sucking and stroking and laving the cock in his mouth while he listened to the increasingly desperate sounds Michael was making.

When he couldn’t stand it even a second longer, Tom reached down and unzipped his jeans and pulled out his own painfully swollen dick and tugged at it mercilessly as he continued to bath Michael’s with his tongue and try to swallow as much as he could. Bobbing his head in time the familiar rhythm of his hand on his dick, hearing every moan out of Michael’s mouth mingle with the roar of his pulse in his ears, Tom held on as long as he could. Then he was coming and shouting and falling back onto the floor as Michael tackled him.

Frantic kisses, tongue fucking his mouth, hands everywhere all at once, none of it could compare to the feeling of Michael’s cock grinding and thrusting madly against his body. Moaning was the closest thing to coherent speech that he was capable of while Michael was attempting to rub himself off against his slippery belly and his groin and thighs like a deranged animal.

That is until he began chanting, “Fuck me, Michael, oh god, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

A feral glint lit the blue-gray eyes staring back at him when Michael abruptly stopped mindlessly rucking up against him, stood and pulled him into the bedroom. The haze of sex and alcohol and euphoria blurred everything, softening it and manipulating time so that it seemed like only seconds before he was lying face down on a bed that smelled like Michael with slick fingers stretching him out. Before he knew exactly what was happening one of those clever digits found a place inside him that made his vision burst into a cascade of white sparks and he was howling.

Soon the sensation was replaced by an intense burning and a feeling of being entirely too full as Michael pressed inside him. It was a slow burn and it took Tom’s breath away ‘til tiny pinpricks of light in the dark clouded his vision and he gulped in air greedily. The sound of hot, sweat drenched bodies slapping together and sucking as they pulled apart was punctuated by grunts and groans originating somewhere above and behind him as he gasped for breath.

The burn lessened and the blinding fireworks were back when Michael shifted position and hit just the right spot with every thrust. It went on and on until Tom was hard again and rubbing into the bed. When he came, every muscle in his body clenched and he could feel himself tighten around the cock inside him, squeezing it and eliciting a shout from Michael. A few thrusts later, Michael shuddered, gasped and fell limp against Tom’s back.

They laid there like that until they were both breathing normally again, and then Michael pulled out of him as they rolled into a more comfortable position and passed out. The spent the entire night wrapped around each other, moving together in their sleep. And in the morning Tom washed himself off with Michael’s soap and washed his hair with Michael’s seldom-used shampoo and went home, smelling like a man.

**The End**


End file.
